


Sugar

by tastewithouttalent



Category: Katekyou Hitman Reborn!
Genre: Birthday Cake, Birthday Presents, Blow Jobs, Cooking, Day 8 - Birthday (Cake), Established Relationship, Fluff, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-22 17:39:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,645
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3737734
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tastewithouttalent/pseuds/tastewithouttalent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Everything took longer than Gokudera expected, cooking and baking and cooling, and he kept having to do emergency shopping runs, for the vanilla he somehow forgot to buy the day before and then the lemons he didn’t think about and then for sugar, more sugar, how much sugar can one recipe call for?" Gokudera makes Yamamoto a birthday present and Yamamoto loves it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sugar

It’s well past noon by the time Gokudera makes it to Yamamoto’s place. He had intended to be there in the morning, an hour or two before lunch, hopefully, or maybe during the lunch rush itself so he could drop off the box heavy in his hands and make his escape. But everything took longer than he expected, cooking and baking and cooling, and he kept having to do emergency shopping runs, for the vanilla he somehow forgot to buy the day before and then the lemons he didn’t think about and then for sugar,  _more_  sugar, how much sugar can one recipe call for? By the time he finally has everything ready to go it’s going on three in the afternoon, the sun warm and glowing at an angle instead of high overhead, and he’s so stressed for time he doesn’t take the shower he was planning on. He just takes the box and  _goes_ , too tight-wound with the hours of lost time to overthink what he’s doing as he makes his way down the streets connecting his apartment to TakeSushi.

There’s no sign of the party he half-dreaded dealing with in the front of the shop; in fact everything is remarkably quiet, even the restaurant no busier than usual when he eases the door open to step into the shaded interior. There’s just the few lingering afternoon guests, Tsuyoshi himself behind the counter, and no sign of Yamamoto anywhere in the space.

“Hey there, Gokudera,” Tsuyoshi offers, and Gokudera jumps like he’s been shocked, surprised as he always is by Yamamoto’s father recognizing him. “You looking for Takeshi?”

“No,” Gokudera starts, denial too reflexive for him to catch immediately. He stalls, hesitates, feels himself going crimson, and corrects, “Yes,” with far less grace than he wishes he could manage. “He’s out?”

It would be easier if he were out. Now that he’s here Gokudera can’t imagine handing the box in his hands over to Yamamoto in person; far better to leave it for him to come home to, after the baseball game he is undoubtedly playing. The box will do a good enough job on its own, it’s not like Gokudera  _needs_  to wish the other boy a happy birthday, and really it’ll be better if he--

“Not at all,” Tsuyoshi says, and Gokudera’s stomach plummets in the rush of panic in his veins. “Go on up.” Then, before Gokudera can formulate an excuse to leave the box and retreat anyway: “Takeshi!” loud and up the stairs. “You have a visitor!”

Gokudera can’t make out the words of the response; there’s just an incoherent burble of sound, carrying more the tone of excitement than clear language. It’s still enough to shiver anticipation and nerves under his skin, the inevitability of actually seeing Yamamoto settling into him, and then Tsuyoshi is gesturing up the stairs and there is nothing for it but to go up them, albeit as slowly as Gokudera can manage. By the time he makes it to Yamamoto’s door he’s shaking with tension, feeling like every muscle in him is trying to cramp at once, and if it weren’t for Yamamoto opening the door before Gokudera can knock he thinks he might stay frozen there for another hour.

It’s a little overwhelming, to get the full force of Yamamoto’s smile all at once. It sends Gokudera’s breathing rushing out of him, tightens his forehead in what is nearly a cringe of pain, but Yamamoto doesn’t wait for him to recover himself. He’s laughing in delight, chirping “Gokudera!” with all his usual joy audible on every syllable. “I was hoping you’d come by!”

“Of course I was gonna come,” Gokudera growls. He doesn’t know why his tone drops lower as Yamamoto’s gets happier; it seems to be some kind of forced response, like he’s attempting to compensate for the other boy’s joy by the application of his own irritation. “It’s your  _birthday_ , I don’t really have a choice about it.”

“Aww, of course you have a choice!” Yamamoto steps away from the door, the easy motion pulling Gokudera forward into the room as effectively as if he had been ordered. “I wasn’t sure I’d get to see you today.”

“Making your stupid present took longer than I expected,” Gokudera snaps. It’s not until the words are past his lips and Yamamoto is turning back to stare at him that he realizes what he’s said and starts to flinch back from the other’s exclamation.

“You made me a present?” Yamamoto says, soft and shocked and thrilled, and Gokudera has to look away from the light in his eyes before he loses his grip on his own composure.

“Here,” he says instead, looking down as he thrusts the box unceremoniously towards Yamamoto’s chest. “Just. Take them.”

“Huh?” Yamamoto’s hands close at the bottom of the box, take it out of Gokudera’s forced casual grasp like it’s something magical and revered. “What is it?”

“You have the fucking box in your hands,” Gokudera growls, crossing his arms now that they’re free. “Open it yourself, it’s supposed to be a surprise.” His heart is pounding in his chest, his breathing going tight in his throat as he watches Yamamoto balance the box on one hand so he can tug at the folded-over top. What seemed like a good idea a week ago feels like a horrible mistake, now, with his fingers still faintly sticky with sugar he couldn’t seem to wash off and the evidence of his effort in Yamamoto’s hands. But it’s too late to snatch it back now, impossible to offer something else when this is all he has; all he can do is to start with a “Sorry, it’s stupid,” as Yamamoto gets the top open and sees what’s inside.

“ _Oh_ ,” Yamamoto says, his exclamation cutting off Gokudera’s words as if it’s sliced through the other’s vocal chords. “Oh, gosh,  _Hayato_.”

“ _Don’t_!” Gokudera snaps, turns away before he can see the expression on Yamamoto’s face. He shoves the door shut with more force than necessary, slams it into place in the frame and keeps a hand against the wood as he turns back. “Don’t  _call_  me that when we’re--” And then there is a hand in his hair, baseball-callused fingers tangling into his hair, and Yamamoto’s mouth at his proves precisely as effective as words at stopping Gokudera’s protest.

Gokudera is too dazed to recover right away when Yamamoto pulls back, still lulled into shocked stillness just by the fingers in his hair and the warmth of the other’s hand against the side of his neck. And Yamamoto is smiling, bright and wide all over his face like he can’t contain his happiness, laughing in place of breathing when he leans in to bump his nose to Gokudera’s.

“Thank you,” he says, sounding so incandescently pleased Gokudera can’t resist the urge to smile that hits him, that starts to turn up the corners of his mouth without his intention. “I can’t believe you made cupcakes for me, thank you  _so_  much.”

“I don’t even know if they’re any good,” Gokudera protests, but it sounds weak and it’s undermined by the pause he has to take to grab at Yamamoto’s shirt, to turn his head up for a breathlessly quick kiss. “I’ve never tried cooking these before.”

“They’ll be delicious,” Yamamoto enthuses with the astonishing faith he always musters in the face of a complete lack of evidence. “Will you help me eat them?”

Gokudera makes a face. “They’re for  _you_ , idiot, I don’t even like sweets that much.”

“Please,” Yamamoto says, and he’s letting his hand slide from Gokudera’s hair to the other’s wrist, closing his fingers and tugging as he backs towards the bed like the physical urging will persuade the other to stay. He doesn’t need to; his eyes are already making more than enough of a case for him, the blown-wide glow of them entangling Gokudera until he’s helpless to whatever Yamamoto might ask of him, even if he puts up a token protest of a groan and an eye-roll as he comes in.

“You have to try them first,” he insists, sitting on the very edge of the bed while Yamamoto slides back to cross his legs under him so he can lean in over the box with every appearance of delighted excitement. “I’ll try a bite of  _one_.”

“Okay,” Yamamoto agrees, warm and bubbling over with joy. “Why are they all different?”

Gokudera clears his throat, looks away even though Yamamoto is peering into the box and not looking up at him at all. “I didn’t know what flavors you would like best,” he says while gazing with complete focus at the glossy poster of some baseball player hanging on the wall. “So there’s a bunch of different ones.”

“Hayato,” Yamamoto says, drawing the other’s name out slow and shocked on his tongue. “You did all that? How long did it take?”

“Shut up,” Gokudera growls, looks back at the box without meeting Yamamoto’s eyes. “Just try one already so we can agree they’re terrible.” He can feel his cheeks burning, embarrassment winding hot through his veins, but for once Yamamoto actually listens to him. Gokudera watches the angle of his fingers as he reaches in to extricate a cupcake from the array of options, fights back the urge to smile at the little plaintive hum Yamamoto makes when his fingers catch frosting off the adjacent cakes. By the time he actually has a cupcake free his fingertips are smeared into a rainbow of frosting, yellow and pink picked up in addition to the plain-vanilla white of the cupcake he pulled out first. Gokudera is stuck watching that, staring at the color across Yamamoto’s skin like it will protect him from the rejection that feels inevitable as Yamamoto eats half the cupcake in one bite.

There’s a pause, a moment of tension Gokudera can feel aching all along his spine, and he’s looking away before he can see Yamamoto’s reaction, framing a growling apology before the other’s mouth is free enough to speak. “It’s fine, you don’t have to eat the rest, it was a stupid idea in the first place.”

Yamamoto makes a sound, muffled and unintelligible, and Gokudera looks up reflexively to see him shaking his head with as much vehemence as he’s ever seen from the other boy. His eyes are wide, shocked into golden glow, and as Gokudera stares at him he swallows, clears his mouth enough to say, “It’s  _delicious_.”

“It is  _not_ ,” Gokudera blurts in instinctive rejection. “You don’t have to try to make me feel better, I--”

“No,” Yamamoto interrupts, and the negation is rare enough on the other’s lips that Gokudera goes still and shocked-silent for a moment. Yamamoto is shaking his head, taking another bite of the cupcake and talking through the mouthful. “It’s  _good_.”

“No way,” Gokudera scoffs, and Yamamoto reaches out, offers the last bite pressed between fingertips still sticky with multi-colored frosting. Gokudera draws back from the motion, feels his forehead creasing into skeptical disbelief, and Yamamoto makes a plaintive noise, reaches in farther.

“I don’t even  _like_  cake,” Gokudera attempts, a desperate protest that is submission even as he says it, and Yamamoto swallows, licks the frosting clinging to his mouth off his lips as he points out, “You said one bite, you said you’d try it.”

“I didn’t mean for you to feed it to me,” Gokudera groans, but he did promise, even if it was rash and unthinking, and he can’t keep his gaze off Yamamoto’s fingers for any length of time. It seems better to give in quickly rather than lose face by drawing out the inevitable conclusion longer than it needs to be, so he leans in even as he’s frowning at this deviation from his expectations, takes the promised bite from the frosting-sticky catch of Yamamoto’s fingertips.

It’s sweet, of course, as overwhelming at first taste as Yamamoto’s cheerfulness can be. But the frosting is rich, buttery and flavored with the vanilla Gokudera had to go out to buy, and in the first rush of flavor Gokudera can’t help the little whimper of appreciation that comes up his throat. There’s a shudder of satisfaction running through his whole body, a reaction too immediate to call back, and Yamamoto is drawing his hand back, grinning so wide it takes him a minute to control himself enough to lick the last of the frosting off his fingers.

“It  _is_  good, right?” he asks with the gentle persistence of certainty.

“Shut up and eat your stupid cupcakes,” Gokudera shoots back, but Yamamoto just laughs and carefully retrieves another from the box.

It  _is_  gratifying, although Gokudera doesn’t want to admit it, satisfying to see the effort of several hours being put to such good use. Yamamoto is eating slowly, like he’s savoring every bite, his eyes going a little bit out-of-focus every time as if all his attention is being brought to the taste of the cupcakes he’s eating. Gokudera truly is satisfied with just the one bite, the lingering flavor of the vanilla still sweet on his tongue, but he ends up watching Yamamoto with as much focus as the other is bringing to bear on his slow appreciation. It’s hard to look away from the motion of the other boy’s throat, the unthinking slide of his tongue across his fingertips to lick off the extra frosting that clings there, the way the sugar catches at his lips to glaze them sweet with temptation. Gokudera doesn’t realize he’s staring, his eyes unfocused and his lips parted like he can’t catch his breath, until Yamamoto smiles at him, offers another bite of cupcake with a questioning sound more than coherent speech.

Gokudera opens his mouth to refuse; then he closes it again, ducks his head under the heat of the blush that starts across his cheeks at the beginnings of an idea he can barely consider rationally. But Yamamoto is still offering the last bite of cake, his fingers sticky with frosting, and when Gokudera looks back at the angle of the other boy’s wrist he’s moving before he overthinks it, reaching to take it with his fingers instead of his mouth.

Yamamoto looks away almost immediately, back at the box still half-full of cupcakes, reaching to pick up another before Gokudera clears his throat and manages to get out, “I said just one bite, didn’t I?” That brings the other boy’s attention back to him, his expression clear of any suspicion of Gokudera’s meaning, until Gokudera has to cough again before he can manage to get out the rest of the words. “This is still for you.”

He can watch understand ease its way onto Yamamoto’s features. It’s his eyes, first, the innocent gaze flickering into the shape of shadows as he blinks at the bite of cake still in Gokudera’s hand. Then his mouth comes open around the unvoiced exhale of understanding, and when he moves it’s to brace his hand against the bed instead, to lean in so he can open his mouth to accept the bite off Gokudera’s fingertips. His mouth is warm against the other boy’s skin, damp and hot to the touch, but it’s only a moment of contact; then he’s drawing back, swallowing the cake while staring at Gokudera like he’s waiting for a cue.

“Idiot,” Gokudera says, and his voice is shaking but he’s pretty sure that’s okay, Yamamoto won’t notice or at least won’t remember in a minute. “My fingers are all sticky, now.”

“Mm,” Yamamoto hums. “Sorry,” and he’s leaning back in as Gokudera lifts his hand, reaching out to brace the other boy’s wrist so he can suck Gokudera’s fingers clean. Gokudera takes a shocked inhale, the sound harsh in his throat as all his blood burns instantly hot in his veins, and Yamamoto hums, shuts his eyes and sucks against Gokudera’s clean fingers like they taste as good as the cupcakes.

“Christ,” Gokudera blurts, and he’s snatching his hand back, reclaiming his fingers so he can manage the box still open between them. Yamamoto is leaning in without waiting, reaching out to feather his fingers against Gokudera’s hair while the other is still moving the remaining cupcakes safely to the floor, and no sooner has Gokudera looked back up from pushing the box aside than Yamamoto is on him, leaning in towards his mouth like he’s being physically drawn by the promise of a kiss. He tastes like sugar, strawberry and chocolate and a lingering hint of vanilla, and then Gokudera gets his hands up and against the front of Yamamoto’s shirt and they’re toppling back onto the bed, and it’s heat that sweeps over his attention along with the sweet of Yamamoto’s lips. Yamamoto is laughing against his mouth, faint noise purring into vibration between them, his fingers seeking out Gokudera’s hair and the side of his waist while Gokudera slots their legs together so he is deliberately rather than accidentally pinning the other down. Yamamoto’s hips rock up against his, press them close together, and Gokudera groans and pulls back an inch so he can take a gasp of air.

“You taste like sugar,” Yamamoto volunteers, his fingers curling in under the bottom edge of Gokudera’s shirt to land against the other boy’s bare skin. The contact makes Gokudera shiver, sparks heat up his spine, and when he moves it’s to work one of his hands loose from the fists he has of Yamamoto’s shirt so he can mirror the other’s motion.

“You taste like cupcakes,” he declares, pushing his fingers in under the edge of Yamamoto’s jeans, and moves while Yamamoto’s eyelashes are fluttering in reaction. With a knee against the bed he can slide downward, shifting until he’s fitting his hips between the other boy’s knees and can push Yamamoto’s shirt up to press his mouth to the other’s stomach. Yamamoto jerks at the touch, a sound catching into a whimper in his throat, and Gokudera doesn’t pull away, lets his lips linger against the fluttering tension over the other’s skin as he works at the fastening of Yamamoto’s jeans. He’s almost there, has the button open and the zipper down, when a hand catches at his hair, when a breathless “Wait,” brings his attention up to Yamamoto’s face.

“What?” he snaps, maybe a little more irritated that he intended to sound. “You don’t want me to  _stop_ , do you?”

“I want to do something for you too,” Yamamoto says, his fingers stroking through Gokudera’s hair and pushing it back from his features.

Gokudera rolls his eyes, heaves a sigh deliberately loud enough for Yamamoto to hear. “It’s your  _birthday_ ,” he points out. “You’re supposed to accept presents, not  _give_  them.”

“But--” Yamamoto starts, his tone deceptively gentle for an argument Gokudera doesn’t really want to bother with, and Gokudera keeps talking, loud to drown out the other’s protests.

“After,” he says, wraps his fingers in over the top of Yamamoto’s clothes and starts pulling them off his hips. “If you want to I’m not going to stop you. It’s your birthday, you can do whatever you want.” The jeans slide down and Gokudera forms his expression into the sternest frown he can manage under the circumstances.

“But  _after_ ,” he growls, and turns his head down so he can take Yamamoto past his lips before the other has a chance to protest further. The sound Yamamoto makes is far from a protest, much closer to a groan, and when the fingers against Gokudera’s hair curl into a hold Gokudera takes it as encouragement and slides down farther. Yamamoto is hot at his tongue, salty and faintly bitter to cut through the lingering sweet of the cupcakes, and when Gokudera shifts his tongue experimentally Yamamoto makes a gasping noise and falls back to the mattress with enough force for Gokudera to feel the impact.

“Hayato,” he says again, rushed and half-groaning, and Gokudera huffs a faint laugh through his nose and shifts his head, stroking up over Yamamoto with lips and tongue as best as he can manage. It seems to be enough, from the way the fingers in his hair tense and the way Yamamoto flushes harder in his mouth, and when Gokudera shifts his weight it’s just to get a hand up against Yamamoto’s hip, to hold the other boy down and support his own weight so he can come in closer and slide Yamamoto’s cock farther back into his mouth.

It’s not that Gokudera inherently enjoys this; the angle is always hard to work out, the motion different to achieve and harder to maintain, and the bitter taste at the back of his tongue isn’t pleasant, exactly. But Yamamoto’s knees are falling open like the other boy can’t remember to sustain any strength in his limbs, and Gokudera can feel his legs starting to tremble in response, and  _that_  he does enjoy, the shuddering reaction of Yamamoto’s body and the little mewling whines from the other’s throat. For that he’ll speed his movements, slick his tongue up along the smooth underside of Yamamoto’s cock and tighten his lips to suck as he goes, just for the way Yamamoto groans and tries to buck up into the heat of his mouth. Gokudera feels hot, hazy and aching with want, but he doesn’t pull away, doesn’t slow, even when Yamamoto’s fingers start to tighten against his hair, even when Yamamoto’s breathing catches audible on each of the other boy’s inhales. Gokudera’s jaw is hurting, all he can taste is the slick bitter of pre-come against his tongue, but Yamamoto’s back is arching off the bed and he’s going hotter against Gokudera’s lips and Gokudera feels as anxious-close as if it’s his own orgasm he’s chasing down. Yamamoto’s hand drags against his hair, Gokudera shoves hard at Yamamoto’s hip, and then there’s a shudder, a tremor running through Yamamoto’s whole body that Gokudera can feel as relief in his own. Then heat, spills of bitter warmth over Gokudera’s tongue as Yamamoto trembles himself into satisfaction, the hold against his hip becoming unnecessary as Yamamoto falls boneless and languid over the sheets.

Gokudera waits until Yamamoto’s fingers go slack in his hair before he pulls back, sits up and swallows and drags the back of his hand across his mouth. Yamamoto is staring at him when he looks at the other boy, his whole expression so warm and pleasure-hazed Gokudera isn’t sure he remembered his original request at all.

“Happy birthday,” Gokudera offers, his mouth pulling into a lopsided grin in spite of the salty bitter still clinging to his tongue, starts to lean in for a kiss. Yamamoto moves before he expects him to, sits up with far more speed than Gokudera was anticipating, and those fingers are back against his hair, fitting against the back of his neck while Yamamoto presses the sugar-sweet of his mouth in against Gokudera’s lips. Gokudera hesitates for a moment -- his own mouth still tastes weird even to himself, and it’ll be worse for Yamamoto -- but then Yamamoto is licking against his lips in unspoken plea, leaning in to urge him backwards, and Gokudera is opening his mouth before he has a chance to really consider refusing. Everything is hot, the slick heat of Yamamoto’s tongue against his and Yamamoto’s fingers at his skin, and Yamamoto is wiggling free of his jeans and pushing Gokudera back, sliding them both across the bed until Gokudera’s shoulders hit the wall.

“It’s after,” is what he says when he pulls back, his eyes nearly black when he blinks himself into focus, and Gokudera has no protest he can offer to that, not with his heartbeat pounding loud in his ears and his cock so hard against his jeans he’s aching with it. He just laughs instead, sharp and quick to complement the ease of Yamamoto’s smile, reaches down to unfasten his jeans one-handed.

“Guess so,” he admits, barely gets the words out before Yamamoto is ducking in for another kiss, pressing his mouth hard against Gokudera’s like he’s taking a breath before plunging underwater. Then he’s sliding away, backwards over the bed until he’s lying across most of the mattress, braced up on one elbow while he reaches out to pull Gokudera’s jeans open with the other. Gokudera lets him do that too; he lacks any resistance, now, and if Yamamoto wants to return the favor of a blowjob he can’t find the will to refuse, not with the other boy’s eyes wide and endless-dark, with his lips damp from kissing against Gokudera’s mouth.

Gokudera barely has time to anticipate the friction. He’s still in the middle of getting his zipper open when Yamamoto is pulling against the fabric, dragging jeans and boxers aside so he can lean in and fit his lips against the head of Gokudera’s cock. His mouth is hotter than Gokudera expects, feels warm as sunlight against his skin, and Gokudera is groaning without thinking, grabbing a handful of Yamamoto’s dark hair to hold him in place before rationality has kicked in. Yamamoto doesn’t seem to mind; he’s humming pleasure, the vibration rippling down Gokudera’s length to turn into heat low in his hips, and when Gokudera sucks in a sharp forced inhale Yamamoto takes advantage of the moment to tip in closer, to get his lips around the head of the other’s cock and his fingers curled around the base.

Gokudera wants to tip his head back, wants to stare unseeing at the ceiling and groan his appreciation as the heat of Yamamoto’s mouth slides down over and around him. He doesn’t. It’s better to keep watching, to press his shoulders to the wall and keep his eyes focused on the dark of Yamamoto’s head as the other boy moves, his lips moving in easy unthought rhythm with his fingers. He’s sprawled out over the bed, the open angle of his knees speaking to the comfortable pleasure Gokudera can imagine still warm in his veins, the hum at the back of his throat reassurance of his own satisfaction in doing this. Every movement of his head or his fingers brings a wave of heat with it, pleasure spreading out up Gokudera’s spine and trembling into his fingers, until he has to bury both hands against Yamamoto’s hair more to hold himself steady than to urge the other boy into any additional motion. But Yamamoto is moving faster anyway, breathing hard enough that Gokudera can feel it on his skin and sliding his tongue up against the other boy’s length, and the heat in Gokudera is winding tight, sooner than he’d like and faster than he’d expected, anticipation and desire and pleasure all three tangling together until he’s pulling Yamamoto’s hair, curling in over the other boy like the motion will hold off the edge rushing towards him.

Then Yamamoto’s lips draw tighter, he sucks sudden and hard against the other boy, and: “Oh fuck,” Gokudera says, “ _Takeshi_ ” and his vision is gone, his awareness is gone, everything of him is gone but the shuddering waves of pleasure jolting up his spine and under his skin. Yamamoto keeps moving, damp friction pulling Gokudera’s orgasm shuddering and endless, until by the time the last tremors fade into stillness he feels half-melted and incoherent, only the support of the wall at his back keeping him upright.

Yamamoto pulls away while Gokudera is still looking for words, smiles and sits up and runs a hand through the mess Gokudera has made of his hair. Gokudera watches him, blinking slow and hazy, and when Yamamoto scoots in to fit against him he can’t find any good reason to protest the heat of the other boy’s body settling against his or the damp of Yamamoto’s lips fitting in against his.

Even now, he tastes like sugar.


End file.
